Sunday, May 17, 2009

I walk differently with new shoes into a field full of dandelions at night. I walk into this field, shiver, announce my presence to this field. I am sheathed in cold air. Cold air sheathes me. The field introduces the sky for questioning. Is it a bowl turned upside down? Are you drunk? Has my voice changed? A doe limps out of the woods. The doe, that’s your symbol! It moves through the dandelions with shadows stuck to it/ you move through the dandelions with shadows stuck to you/ something like that. It’s stupid, anyway. You’re back but you’re not glad: What is the symbol for this? Maybe it’s on the radio. An airplane guides itself with a white light. You will fly tomorrow. All my good ideas seem pretty bad now. I think about the airplane’s destination. Wherever it’s going, I totally agree. (Later I find out that the airplane made an emergency landing on my high school’s football field, and looking back, yeah, I saw it coming).

I have this image of your house: It is sunset, and orange sunlight streams through a set of sliding glass doors, splashes on your kitchen table which is made of blond wood, travels across the floor, crawls up the pantry door which stands partially open. I think there’s a grocery list or something, tacked to the door. On the floor, next to the door, is a dog’s water dish. You’re in the backyard. I can see you through the sliding glass doors. It looks like you’re waiting for something to be thrown to you.

The sky is still there, waiting for me to do something. I decide to make a wish. I wish curling up into a ball and crying was common practice, like going to the bathroom, and equally as effective. All my old ideas seem pretty dumb now, though I take some comfort in the fact that they looked good at the time.

it took me 19 years to speakof the diverse vegetation in myhometowni spoke in the drivewaywith the sun going down beyond thatsweet-smelling treethe sky carved up byairplanes in the branchesmy brother bit his tongueskateboarding 4 spots of bloodon the white cementhe swears more nowand better, too

the mothers on the altar for a blessingthe blessing shoots out of ourright hands andthe mothers laugh my motheramong them and Isomehow cheering her on

she rides home with flowersin her lap they are yellow

"he was laughingand they were being silly"

she saysspying on the neighborsmaking wild assumptions abouther obese friend orthe prom date in theflapper dress(how cold she must have been!)Mom mymother dreamingup her next post-it notedreaming about herfatherwellher worries have never beenevident i thinkshe loves this little house how ithums like a machine when she'sinside it

Saturday, May 2, 2009

whistling through Thursday nightin a cigar shaped automobilewind licking his hair, lips pulledback over a neat set of teethgrinding sticks of blue gum the windcombs his hair past thelaundromat dishwasher microwavejoint blessed by streetlampsextending their right handsover his glowing head inflickering baptism bullets underthe rainy bridge pavement unravelsbeyond headlights justwhere thought it would thecigar-car eats hills eats targravel bottle caps hardly stops toeat a hamburger in the dimdiner don't even picturethe car stopping don't even picturethe passenger seat there is noneone little Buddha on the dashboardone case of beer in the backseatone furry hand on the steering wheelanother tapping time on hot redflank of the screamwinking into the wind winding into adark green valley little cottageswith sleepy blue windows littlefoxes leave a field in a lineand long headlights filter thepocket from its dusk accusethe air of its dark cigar-cartongues black dips withpools of black in their bottomsand hoses the dregs poof intoa cloud of bats tornadoes amongsleepy cottages Barton splitsclawed nightthe swooping nose of his chariot

Friday, May 1, 2009

Thehorizon boilsover spills into thebig field asunlit farmerfolds himself into the cornstalks and followsearth's quiet curvewith palms cuppedfor gather and posturesculpted by smiling floorboardsa front porchcradles a concentration ofbrown nuts and ladybug husksa dead fly or two

what spilled from the horizondrips up the porch steps, drinksmilky orange shinglesand

the sunlit farmer picks his waythrough the tall corn each steprevealing the glory ofthat which is uninterrupted